IT was six or seven years ago when I was living in one of the districts of the province of T——­, on the estate of a young landowner called Byelokurov, who used to get up very early, wear a peasant tunic, drink beer in the evenings, and continually complain to me that he never met with sympathy from any one.  He lived in the lodge in the garden, and I in the old seigniorial house, in a big room with columns, where there was no furniture except a wide sofa on which I used to sleep, and a table on which I used to lay out patience.  There was always, even in still weather, a droning noise in the old Amos stoves, and in thunder-storms the whole house shook and seemed to be cracking into pieces; and it was rather terrifying, especially at night, when all the ten big windows were suddenly lit up by lightning.

Condemned by destiny to perpetual idleness, I did absolutely nothing.  For hours together I gazed out of window at the sky, at the birds, at the avenue, read everything that was brought me by post, slept.  Sometimes I went out of the house and wandered about till late in the evening.

One day as I was returning home, I accidentally strayed into a place I did not know.  The sun was already sinking, and the shades of evening lay across the flowering rye.  Two rows of old, closely planted, very tall fir-trees stood like two dense walls forming a picturesque, gloomy avenue.  I easily climbed over the fence and walked along the avenue, slipping over the fir-needles which lay two inches deep on the ground.  It was still and dark, and only here and there on the high tree-tops the vivid golden light quivered and made rainbows in the spiders’ webs.  There was a strong, almost stifling smell of resin.  Then I turned into a long avenue of limes.  Here, too, all was desolation and age; last year’s leaves rusted mournfully under my feet and in the twilight shadows lurked between the trees.  From the old orchard on the right came the faint, reluctant note of the golden oriole, who must have been old too.  But at last the limes ended.  I walked by an old white house of two storeys with a terrace, and there suddenly opened before me a view of a courtyard, a large pond with a bathing-house, a group of green willows, and a village on the further bank, with a high, narrow belfry on which there glittered a cross reflecting the setting sun.

For a moment it breathed upon me the fascination of something near and very familiar, as though I had seen that landscape at some time in my childhood.

At the white stone gates which led from the yard to the fields, old-fashioned solid gates with lions on them, were standing two girls.  One of them, the elder, a slim, pale, very handsome girl with a perfect haystack of chestnut hair and a little obstinate mouth, had a severe expression and scarcely took notice of me, while the other, who was still very young, not more than seventeen or eighteen, and was also slim and pale, with a large mouth and large eyes, looked at me with astonishment as I passed by, said something in English, and was overcome with embarrassment.  And it seemed to me that these two charming faces, too, had long been familiar to me.  And I returned home feeling as though I had had a delightful dream.